


SWG insta-drabbles

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 21:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: insta-drabbles written for the Silmarillion Writers Guild's 13th birthday celebration!(cross-posted from SWG)





	1. Chapter 1

**Cycle, disappointment, illusion, south** (prompt from angelica_ramses)

“I am loathe to have you leave us,” Elu said. Even one who did not know the cold lord of Doriath well would have been able to hear the stern disappointment in his tone, and Beleg – well, Beleg had known the Greymantle King for a very long time now indeed.

And yet.

“Not near as loathe as I am to let your foster son believe that he has been abandoned,” he returned, ignoring the cycle he was trapping himself within even as he stepped full knowing into its jaws.

He harbored no illusion that Túrin would see this for what it was – Beleg’s love of him taken form, as Beleg raised the Man’s safety and peace of mind above his own oaths of service to the Greymantle King.  

Perhaps Elu would have answered. Perhaps he would not.

But Beleg was already sketching a perfunctory bow and leaving, planning to follow the rumors of Túrin’s passage south wherever – and to whatever end – they might lead him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Amber, space, shatter, comfort** (prompt from elvie)

_I have heard you wonder that I will not take up the colors of your guild, but ever remain in my own: in amber, and gold, and cream. Too, I have heard you wonder if I am revering old allegiances in so doing – if there is some Vala in the West whom I would still honor by wearing Their colors._

_Oh, my Tyelpe – no. It is much simpler than that._

_It is not that these are the colors of warmth, and light, and life. It is that these are the colors that I happened to wear when I first entered these halls and gained your permission to live in Ost-in-Edhil, and I saw how your eyes were drawn to me when I wore them._

_And so, I remain._

_It should not be possible for one of the Children such as yourself to take up such space in my thoughts, and yet, here you are. You have settled into my daily considerations with such ease and comfort, shattered my understandings of your kind so completely and utterly, that it becomes difficult to recall exactly who and what I was before this._

_I know what I must do, and yet._

_You make this difficult for me, Tyelpe._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Moonlit, leaf-fringed, perplexed, descended** (prompt from hhimring)

If Beleg had somehow had the time to think, to explain, then he might have assigned much of the blame for what happened to the night itself: storm-stricken, moonlit, and only darkened further by dancing, leaf-fringed shadows. A bad night by any standards, and worse still, utterly unconducive to Mannish eyes or frightened minds.

And if somehow he had had a little time more – time enough to understand what was happening, or to make his peace with it before it did – then he might have seen that Túrin looked more perplexed than happy at having been cut free.

Much as if the Man did not know that this was what had happened to him.

As if instead he had imagined that the sting of a blade to his foot had been an enemy’s touch, rather than the inadvertent slip of a dear friend.

But in truth there was no time for any of this before Anglachel’s dark blade descended.


	4. Chapter 4

**Tremble, silks, courage, answer** (my own prompt, whoops)

 

“These are not your halls, Curufinwë, but mine.”

No, Edrahil had always known that Findaráto was not the type to tremble before a challenge. After all, the Arafinwëan prince had been the one to accept Ulmo’s command to build a hidden city, to build good relations with the Khazad, to discover and guide the Secondborn the remainder of the way out of the Moringotto’s fell darkness.

To accept Edrahil himself, strange and odd-made as he was.  

And now, too, to stand and rebuke the two sons of Fëanor whom he had also sheltered, when the younger found the misbegotten courage to threaten Nargothrond with their re-awakened Oath after Beren’s plea.

 “It is not your oath, Curufinwë, but mine.”

 His opponents tended to forget that just because Findaráto favored silks and diplomatic words in his day to day life as king, that he was also just as formidable with sharper tools – armor, blade, and lordly rebuke.

 “And most certainly is not your choice, Curufinwë, but _mine_!”

Findaráto was incandescent.

“No answer, cousin? Perhaps that is because you have none.”  

And though this must certainly mean war within Nargothrond – or else exile, and death – Edrahil had never been prouder of his lord and king than he was now.

 


End file.
